And Stick-Up, led by Mitch, was corralled by the same folks that had been sitting and styling and eyeing each other. Now everybody was ready to swing, and Mitch broke out in some King Curtis solo. Then came the traps, then the electric bass—sort of loud—then the trumpet, just teasing, and the whole sound was like a James Brown Revue in Fauquier County, Virginia. Thick pushing, wailing, and Sassafrass could catch Mitch’s incessant experiments.

He wasn’t doing it exactly like we all know it, but exactly like it could be, and still smoking. Folks were doing all kinds of dancing, rubbing up and down, showing off, being cool, every old thing was going down. Exactly thirty minutes later, Mitch signalled for a whanging end to the set, and the folks were disturbed; they wanted to keep on dancing and forgetting and dancing. But the management only allowed thirty-minute sets, because on Fridays and Saturdays clients had to buy at least two drinks a set, so Mitch’s group climbed down from the podium (which really reminded Sassafrass of pictures of old slave auction stands, but the thought was so odd she threw it out). Sassafrass sauntered up to Mitch to give the music back to him, round the back of his left ear. Mitch smiled and was actually very proud of himself, but he insisted Sassafrass catch the next act, because it was important.

Up on the podium, two worn-out not-in-a-hurry old men were getting their act together; the heavyset one standing over the ironing board, the thinner, smaller one sitting on a chair with a washboard in his hands. They were smiling and joking back and forth. Sassafrass looked at Mitch inquisitively. “What they gonna do?” Mitch beamed, and motioned for her to keep watching. Then Slim, at the ironing board, stomped his foot hard on the stage: 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4, and all this music started coming out of the place. With the washboard came the melody, and little riffs and songs like a good woman sings at night. On the ironing board was a mean rhythm section—yes, a rhythm section—and the two old-timers tore the place down. Folks were just hopping, jumping up and down, or making elaborate personal statements about themselves with their bodies. Sashaying or beckoning—daring somebody to come and get it. And Sassafrass was ecstatic; she didn’t know what to do with herself. She was just dancing and falling back to the South, to the shanties and sweet cornbread, and she wanted to kiss the feet and fingers of Washboard Sam and Ironin’ Board Slim, because they were music . . . they were the truth.